


Gethsemane

by linde13



Category: French History RPF, Historical RPF, Original Work
Genre: Acceptance, Anger, Christianity, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mentions of Character Death, Monologue, Prayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29293179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linde13/pseuds/linde13
Summary: On the night before her execution, Joan of Arc speaks to God one last time.
Kudos: 2





	Gethsemane

Heavenly Father, I know that You are with me. I know that You have _always_ been with me, from when I was but a babe taking my first steps in the green pastures of Domremy, to my final hours trapped in this cell. You have spoken to my heart and called me to listen—and I have tried to do so, God, every time. But tonight, my heart and spirit are in too much turmoil, and I...I need Your guidance, more than ever. I ask this of You not as the Maid of Orleans, a woman they refer to outside these stone walls as a witch and a saint, a heretic and a savior. I ask merely as your servant Jeanne d'Arc, a woman who is about to die.

What time is it, Lord? Past sunset? Midnight? Close to sunrise? It is difficult to mark the passage of time—only a trickle of light dares to enter this tower, barely enough to see my own hands. I feel like a corpse already, shrunken and frail. I am chilled to the bones—oh, what a silly thing to complain about! Tomorrow these bones will have more than enough heat, if they are not so brittle as to break when I am led to the bonfire.

I remember, nine years ago, when enemy soldiers raided our village. I remember my whole family fleeing into the woods, with naught but the clothes on our back and what we could carry in our arms. And the _screams_ , oh Lord, the screams of Marguerite, too old and crippled to flee, and trapped in her house when the soldiers set it ablaze. Even after I have borne witness to so much battle and destruction, those screams haunt my nightmares still.

I should not dwell on such dark thoughts. Instead, let me fill my final hours with small comforts.

It is springtime in Domremy, close to summer. The grass will be so green and lush, not yet withered away by summer's heat. The apple trees will be in full bloom now, filling the air with their fragrance. Do You remember, Father, how Pierre and Jehan would steal those apples when they were supposed to be helping Papa in the field? They used to give me some, as a bribe for lying to Mama and Papa when they asked for the boys' whereabouts. I know it was wrong, Lord, but I still cherish how sweet those apples tasted.

I remember praying in Papa's garden, hearing Saint Michael call my name for the first time. I remember Saint Catherine clasping her hands in mine, and Saint Margaret telling me that You, Lord, had chosen me to be your messenger. I remember weeping for hours on end after their visit, overwhelmed by their radiance and daunted by the path You asked me to take. 

I knew, even then, that path would result in my death. Your servants' lives burn bright yet short. 

But if I had known that your message would bring me to excommunication and the stake, would I have still accepted it?

I do not know. There were so many other ways I could have served You, Father. I could have married, like my sister Catherine, and taught my children to honor You the way that my mother taught me. Or perhaps I could have become a nun and lived a life of quiet servitude in Your name.

But I did accept your messengers' call! And I've followed faithfully, Lord, every step of the way. I disobeyed my own father and rejected the altar; I sought out the Dauphin in Chinon, I retook Orleans from the English and saw him crowned King of France as it should be. I broke Your own laws—donned men's clothing, rode at the head of an army, killed my own countrymen—because it was the only way to carry out Your will. I endured questioning from naysayers and doubts from my own leaders and the arrows of the English, all in Your name, and _this is how You repay me_? Is _this_ the great mercy of God? To witness His chosen messenger humiliated, tormented, abandoned by the king she helped crown, excommunicated, and burned at the stake by men who claim to be Your servants?

Or perhaps...perhaps I was never Your messenger in the first place? Why would You choose me to carry out Your will, when there are so many others better suited to liberate France—more pious, more courageous, less ill-tempered? Perhaps I am nothing more than a foolish farm girl who never should have left home. Or worse—perhaps Bishop Cauchon and his fellow English lapdogs were right, and my saints were in truth demons, sent to lead me astray.

No! I will not allow these doubts to poison my mind again!

Saint Catherine, Saint Margaret...Did you weep, when faced with an agonizing death? Were you ever tempted to give in and renounce God's name, just so the torment and questioning would stop? Did you curse your companions for turning their backs on you, and rage at Heaven for rewarding your faith with agony and suffering?

My Lord Jesus Christ...I know you did weep, on the night in which you were betrayed. I know you knelt in the garden of Gethsemane and prayed for an escape, even as You embraced where God's will would lead you. If you can still hear me...then please, lend me a fraction of your fortitude. Allow me to walk to the stake with my head held up, and look my tormentors in the eye, and show that faith is stronger than even death itself. Saint Michael...when it is all over and my bones are ash, guide me to Heaven. I thank all of you, for shining a light for me to follow. Even if this is not the path I would have chosen for myself, I know now that it is the only path I could have ever taken. If my life is the cost God demands for France's freedom, I will pay it. I would die a thousand times screaming, my flesh melting and bones collapsing into ash, if it means that France will see no more Marguerites and my brother and sisters' children will live in peace.

Will You grant me this small boon, Lord? Whatever happens tomorrow, please let it be known that everything I did in this life was for You and for France. Do not allow my people to remember me as a heretic.

And...forgive me for my doubts tonight. If I give in and renounce my visions, my mission, my nation, and my saints, then everything I have fought and bled for will be for naught. I will have proved my tormentors right, and I can never give them that satisfaction. And no matter how angry and frightened I might be, Lord, I cannot stray from Your path—not now, not ever.

I have walked as far as I am able, all with the guidance of You and Your saints, but I cannot carry this torch any further. All I can do now is cast my light into the darkness and pray that someone else will catch it.

Your will be done, Father, forever and always. Amen.


End file.
